I Regret Everything
by Mr. Watson
Summary: A raging storm causes all missions to be cancelled. With lots of time to themselves, the inner thoughts of four RED mercenaries are revealed; One with a family left behind, one with parental issues, one with an unwavering hatred to his father, and one with an addiction that nearly kills him. These four soon learn that they're all at war with not only their enemies, but themselves.


A Team Fortress 2 fan fiction I submitted to BlastedKing's fan fiction contest. I based this story off one of her fan arts, titled "323 Seems so hopeless at this point".

The purpose of the contest was to take one of her selected fan arts and write a fan fiction based on it.  
She chose three winners.  
I wasn't among them, but I still feel that this is one of my best works.  
Do keep in mind this was written in January and my writing has had a significant improvement since then.

Musical inspiration:  
"Moonlight Sonata" - Ludwig van Beethoven  
"Room of Angel" - Akira Yamaoka  
"Move For Me" - Deadmau5 feat. Kaskade (The mood of the song helped me to relax while writing.)

I also recomend having the rainymood website open while reading this story. It helped me to write this piece and may enhance your reading experience.

This very same fan fiction can also be found on my deviantArt account.

Team Fortress 2 and all characters in this piece belong to Valve.

* * *

**I Regret Everything**

A black haze hung over the base, thick rainclouds hiding the sunlight and pouring a heavy rain down on the land below it. The water furiously tapped the roof and windows. It pooled in large puddles on the dirt and filled the sewers, sending through each base the odour of sewage and rainwater. Storms happened occasion on the war grounds, some worse than others. This was the worst storm that had been seen in a long while. The thunder shook the floors and windows, the lights flickered, and the roof creaked. All missions had been cancelled due to the nature of this storm, so both teams, RED and BLU, had a day to themselves for the first time in what seemed like forever. Despite this, both team dreaded the aftermath of rain, knowing that when the storm finally cleared up, they would be battling in mud and puddles.

All was quiet on the RED base. Most of the mercenaries had decided to use the day to relax. It was like this in stormy weather. The mercenaries had come to like each other's company, but knew that there were days when each man needed his space. On rainy days, it was rare for one of them to emerge from their rooms. The RED mercenaries sometimes wondered if storms had the same effect on the men in Builder's League United.

The Sniper sat in the recreation room, the phone to his ear. The storm was drowned out from there, but he could still feel the table shake whenever the thunder boomed.

"Yes, Mum, I'm alright," he spoke tiredly, "Wot? I'm not _sad_, I'm _exhausted_. . . Mum, I _do_ get sleep, plenty of it . . . Well, _you_ try havin' a job like mine . . . N-No . . . No, Mum, I don't hate my bloody job, it's just tiring is all . . ."

This was something the Sniper did almost daily. He was indeed a loner, preferring to keep away from the company of others, but he always called his parents. It didn't matter that his father complained about his son's career choice and his mother asked him so many questions. He called them anyway.

Sniper sighed deeply, as his mother launched more concerned inquiries his way. "I'll . . . No, Mum, I'm not comin' home . . . What? . . . Oh, not this again . . . Look, Mum . . . be glad that I call you and Dad . . Mum I . . . Oh please don't talk about this . . . Yes, I've thought about it and . . . what? No, you don't need to set me up with anyone . . . I know, I know you're old and you want grandchildren . . ."

He felt his face grow hot. His mother and father worried that they'd never have grandchildren. Their son was middle-aged and wasn't even married. They constantly pressured him to settle down and have some children. This, of course, was not a plan the Sniper greatly considered. The truth was he hated children. Finding a woman to love was a possibility, but having children was not on his agenda.

"Yo, Sniper!"

The sudden shout caught the Sniper off guard, He grumbled as he turned to face a familiar teammate, standing over him with his arms crossed.

"Can I talk to ya?" The Scout asked.

"I suppose that all depends on what you need to talk about," Sniper spoke icily, narrowing his eyes at the Scout. He turned his attention back to the phone. "No, Mum, I wasn't talking to you. Listen, I have to go now . . . Yes, someone needs me. . . I'll call you back tomorrow, I promise . . . Alright . . . Alright . . . Okay, take it easy, Mum . . . I love you too."

Sniper hung up the phone, then turned to glare at the Scout. "Wotcha want?"

The Scout stared down at his teammate, staring smug, like he was trying to intimidate the Sniper. "Get the doctor out his office," he demanded.

The Sniper crossed his arms. "And why should I do that for you?"

"Because you'd be a dick if you didn't."

The Sniper pressed his lips together in a thin, angry line. It was the Scout that always reminded Sniper why he hated children and teenagers.

"He locked the door," Scout continued, "He's ain't comin' out. I knocked on the door and he won't answer. But he's in there, I saw him go in!"

The Sniper adjusted his position. "And what do you need that Kraut for so badly? Did ya cut your finger? Ya gettin' cramps from your period?"

Scout tightened a fist. "Aw, you're beggin' for a good bruisin' now!" Scout took a breath and released his fist, noticing the lack of change in the Sniper's blank expression, "Look, I . . . I have a headache, alright? And I want him to give me something to make it go away."

"Ya sure you didn't hit your head against a wall and forgot?" The Sniper resisted a smirk.

"Alright, _now_ you're being a pain in the ass!" Scout shouted as he raised a fist, "Just do me this one fuckin' favour and I won't have to knock your teeth out!"

The Sniper grumbled. He got to his feet and pushed the aggravated Scout aside. "Alright, I'll get the Kraut nurse! Jesus Christ . . ."

The Scout smirked crookedly, watching the disgruntled Sniper stride away. "Yeah, ya better get him! Jerk . . ."

After getting a considerable distance from his teammate, the Sniper stopped for a moment to stare at the storm outside that only seemed to be getting worse. The wind had picked up speed and was now throwing the heavy rain against the windows. He could hear it splashing in puddles outside and could smell the rising sewage water. He felt the base shake again when a loud crash of thunder immediately followed a flash of lightning.

He found it remarkable how quiet the base grew whenever it rained. The rain was something special, with its ability to not only wash away the world outside, but how it could wash away one's troubles inside.

He strode down the halls, the lights flickering as the power surged. The nature of the storm didn't scare him in the slightest. He would have stayed outside during the storm. However, he was already indoors when the storm started and remembered he had yet to call his parents. He decided to get it over with before anything happened to the phone lines during the storm.

Sniper had finally reached the Medic's office. The door was indeed shut and he didn't hear a sound coming from within.

"Bloody hell," he muttered, "Why am I doin' this?"

He placed a hand on the door handle and turned it, only to find that it wouldn't budge. The doctor had locked himself in. The Sniper sighed, rapping on the door.

"Oi, doktah! Ya better come out! The Scout's gonna knock my teeth out if you don't come and help him!"

No response.

"Doktah!" Sniper knocked on the door a few more times, "I know you're in there!"

Still no response.

"Wanker," he muttered, pressing his ear against the door. He heard no talking; the Medic was alone. He didn't hear the doctor doing anything, but he soon heard the sound of a piano.

"_Strange_," Sniper thought, "_He doesn't have a piano in his office_."

He quickly assumed that the Medic had a record playing.

Once again, he pounded hard on the door.

"Oi, Doktah! I know yer in there! Open up!"

The Medic was inside his office, seated at his desk. He could hear the Sniper over the sound of his record playing, but ignored him.

"Zhey alvays come to me," he muttered, closing his eyes as he rubbed his temples, "Vhy von't he go away? Please, just leave . . . Leave me be for once . . ."

The Medic stressed quite easily and found it exceptionally hard to relax. He knew what to expect of his job, joining a team of nine men and being the only one with medical expertise. Despite this, the stress was better understood when experienced. In and out of the battlefield, he was always busy. His teammates came to him constantly complaining about an ailment, from aches and pains to insomnia to even minor symptoms of a cold. He did the best he could to make sure his comrades were fit to fight, but he couldn't help but feel forgotten by them.

It was always about their needs. No one ever asked him how he was feeling. No one offered him help. He felt like everyone relied on him, but he had no one else to rely on. He had his joys sharing stories with the Heavy, but it didn't help much with his burdens.

Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata repeated itself once more from the record player. The piano's tunes mixed with the sound of the rain had somewhat helped the doctor feel at ease, which didn't please him that a second person was now knocking at his door.

"Just leave me be," Medic whispered as he heard the Sniper yell at him once more from the other side of the door, "Go bother someone else . . ."

War was stressful for the Medic, though the pay was good. He remembered too well what World War II was like. He dreamed about it often and thought about it at random during his waking life. He then recalled the horrific images of the war, particularly the retaliation bombing in Berlin that killed his wife and daughter.

The Medic never forgave himself for not being there when they died. He oftentimes wished that he had been taken with them, or even instead of them. With the years that passed, he didn't think about them often, but he still missed them.

Despite the loss of his medical license, he had some joys in being a battle medic, using his job as an excuse to test any of what he considered to be his mild curiosities. Still, the empty space in his heart still remained, keeping with it its unwavering will to remain empty.

"I know you can hear me!" Sniper shouted, interrupting the Medic's train of thought, "And it's rather impolite to ignore people!"

"Leave me be," Medic whispered once again, still massaging his temples. His job did have his good sides, but the Medic didn't care much for the men he was forced to work with.

"Look mate, I'm not the one who needs you," Sniper shouted, rather annoyed, "In fact, I don't give a shit if you stay locked in your bloody room all God damn day, but you could at least have the decency to listen when you're needed. Scout asked me to get you and I did. But go right ahead. Sit in your room all bloody day."

Right after, the Medic heard the striding of the Sniper's footsteps fading out as he finally left him alone.

"Schweinhund," Medic muttered, resting his forehead on his right hand. Was it so much to get some relaxation around the base?

His encounter with the Sniper just moments ago didn't come as a shock to the Medic; Sniper wasn't exactly the most kind and empathetic individual. Instead, their encounter only confirmed his thoughts on the teammates he always looked down upon.

The Scout would be returning soon, there was no doubt about that. The Medic sighed deeply, turning the key on the drawer to his right and pulling it open. There it was, the Medic's personal treat to himself; unopened boxes of morphine syrettes. It was before the Medigun that field medics had to carry these on them. Now, he had them stored in his office to treat any sort of pain his teammates would experience. These ones, however, were for him alone.

He withdrew a single box from the drawer. The instructions read:_ Inject under skin after cleansing site; to relieve pain in severe injury (or burns)._

The Medic withdrew the syrette from the box, He knew the side effects of morphine, all the common and uncommon side effects. Still, this was still his guilty pleasure, something he hadn't disclosed with any of his comrades.

"Just enough to relax," Medic spoke softly to himself, removing the plastic hood and guard. The rest on his team turned to alcohol, smoking, and many other ways of relieving stress. For the Medic, when all else failed, he had his morphine.

He removed his coat and gloves, and then rolled his left sleeve enough to expose his forearm. As usual, he would ignore the instructions, not bothering to cleanse his skin before the injection. He breathed deeply, pushing the needle under the skin of his upper forearm and allowed the drug to flow into his body.

He felt his skin become hot, tingling underneath. It didn't take long for his head to feel light. He pulled the syrette from his arm and let it fall to the floor. The room began to spin. The side effects were kicking in rapidly, yet the Medic felt that they weren't coming quick enough.

Only minutes after, the Medic contemplated another dose. He knew an entire second dose could be fatal, but maybe just a little more would finally do the trick. He could feel it now, the nausea and sweating from the morphine, but not the pleasant feeling that usually accompanied a morphine dosage. This is what upset the Medic about his habit; it got harder to feel the symptoms with every dose.

"Just a little more," he weakly whispered, grabbing another unopened box, "A little bit more . . . von't hurt." His weak fingers struggled to get the box open. The syrette fell onto his lap. He scrambled to remove the hood with his numbing fingers. The Medic was educated on what could happen in the event of a morphine overdose. He knew that too much could even result in death. At that moment, when the doctor wasn't in his best of judgement, he didn't care. He needed his relief. "One more von't hurt . . . Just one more dose . . ." He placed the needle to his upper forearm once again, allowing some more morphine into his system.

The second empty syrette fell to the floor with the empty one and very soon, it became difficult for the Medic to remain aware of his surroundings.

The dizziness worsened and it quickly became hard for him to breathe. He became aware of his pounding heart and how it began to slow itself down. The nausea quickly worsened and he soon felt as though he was going to vomit.

Slowly, he removed his glasses and rested his sweaty head on his desk. This was the only kind of relaxation he could attain, a state of sedation that hardly felt natural. It satisfied him, nonetheless. A smile broke through on his face, as a strange euphoria surged through him. This was usual for him whenever he took a dose of morphine. He smiled and didn't know what he was smiling about. No matter, it was one of the side effects he enjoyed.

The Moonlight Sonata blurred with the sound of the rain and thunder. His breathing became slower and his skin felt hotter underneath. He closed his eyes, no longer aware of the sounds around him. He no longer noticed the music, the storm, or even his room. He had blurred the world out around him, just as he liked it.

The Sniper made his way down the deserted hallway. He knew the Scout would be angry with him.

"Well, it's not my fault," he muttered, "He wouldn't come out. That's that. The little ankle biter will have to shut it and deal with his bloody headache."

"Talking to yourself?"

Sniper recognized that voice, the familiar French accent that had just spoken from beyond the only door that was left slightly ajar.

He peered inside, to notice the Spy sitting by his window, his gaze locked on the storm. The Spy lit a cigarette held between two fingers. He blew smoke at the glass, the smoke then separating into a thin cloud of grey around him. He seemed at ease like this, his jacket open and his collar buttons undone. It was an unusual laidback demeanour for the Spy.

Another boom of thunder immediately followed a close strike of lightning

"Quite a storm," Spy spoke, still facing the window, "I 'ope it passes."

"I don't mind it," Sniper stepped into the Spy's room and leaned against a wall across from him. "I was planning on going outside to enjoy it."

Spy raised an eyebrow at the Sniper's reflection in the window. "And get struck by lightning? You really are a crazy bushman."

"You aren't that educated, are ya mate?" Sniper crossed his arms, annoyed with the lack of eye contact. "Chances of getting struck by lightning are slim to none."

Spy placed his cigarette to his lips, taking in a breath of smoke. "_Strange ways of dealing with the rain, I suppose_," he thought to himself.

The Spy enjoyed the rain, especially before his slumber. It relaxed him, giving him time to think. Being a mercenary, he had much on his mind, particularly his family. The very thought of his family reminded him that a wedding band encircled his finger beneath his leather glove. He recalled the better days, the ones he had spent with his wife, when love was young and energetic. He remembered their honeymoon in Paris, and how they had kissed atop the Eiffel Tower under the fireworks that illuminated the night. Those were the days.

He hated being apart from her, but what he hated more than that was pretending that his family wasn't his. It was risky business, being a Spy. The lives of his family were always at stake. If his enemies had ever discovered them, they would be in trouble. He had to keep interaction with them to a minimal and he despised it.

Spy closed his eyes as another loud union of thunder and lightning rattled the window he leaned on.

"You see? It's a bad storm. Stay inside."

"Maybe for you," Sniper said, glaring at the back of the Spy's head, "Wouldn't want to get your suit wet, would ya?"

The Spy rolled his eyes, tapping the excess ash off his cigarette. "Is mild concern so bad?"

"Mild concern?" Sniper spoke loudly, "Wotcha need to be concerned about?"

"Nothing, apparently," Spy calmly replied, then took another breath of his cigarette, savoring the richness of its flavor.

Sniper sighed and leaned his head against the wall. The Spy's constant nosiness proved to be very annoying.

"Wotcha thinkin' about?" Sniper said after a few silent seconds.

Spy turned his head slightly. "Nothing important to you." He spoke his words blankly, not a hint of anger or sarcasm in his tone.

The Sniper narrowed his eyes. The Spy never told his teammates anything of himself, and constantly kept his guard up. He released any negative feeling that overtook him through a knife in an enemy's back or a bullet through their head. So for him, it was interesting for see the Frenchman so pensive, not in the sense that it was unusual to see the Spy so deep in thought. This was as close as anyone would get to witness the Spy display any sort of hidden emotion.

The Spy pressed his forehead against the cold window, exhaling cigarette smoke onto the glass as it shook from another blast of thunder. He longed for his wife; he yearned for her touch, her kiss, the way she whispered his name in his ear. He pressed his thumb against his ring finger, studying the shape of his wedding band. "_Soon, ma cherri_," he spoke inside his head, "_Soon . . ._"

"And you?" Spy asked, "What are _you_ thinking about?"

The question came as almost a shock to the Sniper. The Spy had completely brushed off the Sniper's attempt at small talk, and now he was asking the Sniper questions. Sniper considered giving him the same response to aggravate the Spy.

He reconsidered, remembering that he was, in fact, a Spy who had valid reasons for keeping his secrets.

"The Scout, actually." Sniper's response caused the Spy to turn and face him, his sharp features forming a most puzzled expression.

"The Scout?" The Frenchman cocked his head. "What for?"

"Well," Sniper gazed at the ceiling, thinking up an easy explanation, "I don't _care_ about the little delinquent. He just . . . as I was waitin' for the phone, I heard him talkin' to his . . . well, he referred to the person as his mum. He was shoutin' at her, and . . .well, by the time he hung up the phone, he looked . . . awful. He just sat there for a little while and then he stormed outta there."

"Mm, I see," Spy spoke in his same blank tone as before. He placed his dying cigarette between his lips and reached into his jacket to withdraw his cigarette case. "So," he spoke through his cigarette, opening his case and pulling out a fresh one, "Why the sudden concern?" He placed the fresh cigarette in his mouth, lighting it with the dying heat of his previous one, and then crushed the old cigarette in his ashtray. "You never seemed to care about anyone before. So the boy was yelling at his mother, all boys 'is age do." Spy wasn't sure how old Scout was, but assumed by his appearance that he was a young adult. "Why does 'e concern you?"

Once again, the Sniper was caught off guard by the Spy. It was true; he didn't usually care what his other teammates were up to or what was ailing them. It was something in the Scout's voice and the way he composed himself after the phone call that worried him. Even when Scout told him he had a headache, he could only assume it was the result of whatever stress he may have been feeling then.

Still, despite his feelings towards the Scout's mental well-being, he didn't know what to say to him. He could only treat the Scout the way he normally did. If Scout had found out he heard his conversation on the telephone, he would be furious. Sniper didn't feel the need to deal with an angry Scout and could only keep quiet about the matter, up until then at least.

"I . . . I dunno, mate," was all Sniper managed to say. He looked down at the floor, trying to think of a reason that would make sense to the both of them. "I dunno . . . just somethin' about it-"

"Sniper? Aw man, there you are!"

Both men turned their attention to the familiar new-comer.

"Hm, speak of the devil," Spy spoke quietly, placing his cigarette to his lips.

"Wot do ya want, Scout?" Sniper turned to face the rather distraught Scout.

"Look man, you better have a look at the doctor," Scout said nervously, "I kicked the door in," Scout noticed the Sniper's change of expression. " . . . yeah, that's right, I kicked the door in! I didn't want to, but I had no damn choice! Anyway, I saw him, just . . . just layin' there at his desk and . . . I thought he was sleepin' but he's awake alright. He's-"

"Scout, calm down, mate," Sniper seized the boy by his shoulders, staring him in the eyes through his sunglasses, "What happened?"

"I . . . I saw him," Scout avoided the Sniper's shielded eyes, staring down at the space that separated Sniper's boots and Scout's sneakers. "I thought he was sleepin', but he's awake alright, he's awake and . . . his skin is all cold and clammy. He ain't breathin' right and he's confused as hell. He looks like he's dyin', man. I think he's _dyin''_!"

"Alright, I'll go have a look at him." Sniper released the Scout and stood at the doorway. "You comin' with me?"

"No way, man," Scout shook his head, "I can't look at that again. He just looks . . . _awful!"_

"Alright, just . . . wait here," Sniper said nervously before quickly exiting his room.

The Spy stared silently at the Scout. The boy looked horrified. The only time the Spy remembered Scout looking that scared was his first day on the job at RED. It was the same look in his eyes when he first took an enemy's life; he had kept that essence within him for the rest of the day.

He briefly wondered what Scout saw that made him so scared. What sort of state was their Medic in to cause Scout to come looking for someone? And if he was truly as upset as the Sniper had said he was, this certainly wasn't going to make him feel better any time soon.

The nervous look on the Scout seemed more sinister in what little lighting there was in the room. The Spy hadn't turned any lamps on, so he could only see a shadowy figure of Scout, his tall slender features revealed only by a flash of lightning.

The two men both heard the shocked reaction of the Sniper down the hall, causing Scout to shudder. He took in a nervous breath, shaking the image out of his head to the best of his ability.

"Hey, Frenchie, can I have a smoke?" Scout's voice still sounded uneasy.

"I didn't take you for a smoker," Spy replied, a hint of surprise in his words. He grabbed his cigarette case from his lap, "You're the runner of the team and should keep your breathing 'ealthy."

Scout shot the Spy an annoyed glance. "Watcha gonna do? Tell on me?"

Spy kept his eyes locked with Scout's for a few wordless seconds before finally opening the sliver case and held it out.

Scout closed the space between them and quickly snatched a cigarette. "Gotta light?"

Spy rolled his eyes. He withdrew a lighter from his jacket, clicked it to life and ignited the tip of Scout's cigarette.

Scout inhaled his cigarette's smoke deeply, exhaling the rest to the ceiling. "Thanks," he finally said. The cigarette tasted much different from the ones he had tried before. The taste was bold and almost spicy. He wasn't used to the distinct taste, but a cigarette was a cigarette. It was what he needed to calm his nerves.

The Frenchman kept his eyes on the boy for a little while, as he returned his cigarettes and lighter to his jacket pocket. In many ways, Scout reminded him of his youngest son; loud, demanding, but kept to himself, trusting few with whatever was bothering him. The two were even close in age.

What amazed him the most about the Scout was how naive he was. Scout truly believed no one could read through his sarcastic remarks and rotten attitude. It wasn't hard for the Spy to see that Scout had harboured secrets that incessantly ate at him, and what the Sniper had told him only confirmed these beliefs. Scout _was_ a young man after all, at least eighteen years of age. Being a father, Spy knew that keeping secrets was only natural for him.

Eventually, the Scout felt the Spy's stare. He looked to the Spy, annoyance evident on his face. "What are ya lookin' at?"

The Spy turned back to the window. Even if Scout had secrets, showing the rest of the team little respect was inexcusable.

"Are you done 'ere?" Spy tapped his cigarette over his ashtray.

No words followed the Spy's question, only the sound of heavy rain hitting the window. It remained this way for a few empty seconds. Spy didn't even push him to answer his question. He just stared at the reflection of Scout at his window. The boy had his cigarette held tightly between his thumb and index and his expression was unreadable.

"Yeah, I'm done here," Scout finally responded, placing his cigarette between his lips before turning to leave the room.

Spy closed his eyes, pressing his lips tightly together as he heard Scout walk briskly to the door.

"Scout, wait!" he called.

The Scout paused and turned his head back, cigarette still held tightly in his mouth.

The Spy deeply sighed, keeping his eyes on Scout's reflection. "Do you . . . Do you think it is unforgivable . . . for a man to leave 'is family?"

This was a question that had been on the mind of the Spy since he had left his home. He knew his wife and children were doing fine with the money he kept sending them, but even before he joined the RED team, he was away from home often for special assignments. Scout was still young, so he had hoped to hear his opinion on the matter.

There was a long wordless pause between the two before the Scout narrowed his eyes and spoke through his cigarette, "What makes ya ask?"

"No particular reason," the Spy lied quickly, "I 'ad only imagined that the men 'ere 'ave left their families behind."

Scout breathed in cigarette smoke deeply, then withdrew it from his mouth and blew smoke to the floor. "'Course it's unforgivable. No questions asked."

The Scout's answer hit the Spy like a knife to the heart. "Even if 'e was still providing for them?"

"I said _no_ questions asked."

The Frenchman closed his eyes, his chest growing tight as a haze as black as the one outside quickly hung over him. "I see . . . "

The Scout placed his cigarette between his lips. He could see that the Spy was done talking, just by the empty expression on his face. With that, the Scout walked quickly out of the room, not even bothering to shut the door.

The Scout slammed the door of his room shut and locked it behind him. He had to be away from everyone for a little while, especially away from the Medic. He could hear the Sniper inside the Medic's office on his way to his room. He heard the Sniper talking on Medic's office phone. He didn't know who he was talking to, but he sounded frantic as he demanded the person on the other end to get over to the RED base quickly and give him instructions on what to do until they got there.

Scout shuddered at the thought.

He sat at the ledge of his bed, tapping his cigarette and sending ash to the floor.

"Why the hell would he ask that?" Scout spoke quietly to himself, recalling the conversation he had with the Spy, "He's never that personal. And that look on his face, and . . . why would he ask _me_ that?"

Scout sighed out cigarette smoke, resting his forehead on his free hand as he stared at the floor. A father leaving his son behind; it was a subject the Scout wasn't too fond of thinking about, as it then brought forth memories of something Scout wished he didn't remember . . .

He was only seven years of age when his father had suddenly walked out on him and his mother. His parents were never happy together; he only recalled unhappy memories involving the two of them together, involving a lot of arguing, yelling, and name-calling. One morning, his father was suddenly gone, his belongings gone with him. Scout had asked his distressed mother, "Where's daddy?" over and over again, until she finally faced him teary eyed, sobbing, "He's gone. He left us, sweetie, and he's not coming back."

It was in that moment that Scout's life was changed entirely.

"That bastard," Scout muttered to himself, more memories coming back to him as he took another deep breath from his cigarette

He couldn't stop crying upon hearing the news and constantly asked himself if it was his fault, if his father never loved him and his brothers. As the years went on, Scout's mother grew concerned with his behaviour, how he acted out, how he gained some trouble making friends, and how his grades dropped. This only worsened over time, resulting in many suspensions in high school.

His mother strongly disapproved of him becoming a mercenary. Her opinion didn't matter to him, however. He was eighteen at the time and he knew that was the age that men could enlist in a war. The night before he left to join RED, she asked him a question that only made matters worse between them: "Does this have to do with your dad?"

That was when he lashed out at her. "What are ya _talkin' _about?" He screamed, "This has got _nothin' _to do with Dad! Why would you fuckin' bring him up? Why? Where did you get that stupid idea in your head? _None_ of this has _anything_ to do with that _bastard_!"

Emotions clashed as the two screamed the house down. They didn't speak on the drive to the train station and hadn't exchanged a word since he left.

Scout dropped his cigarette butt to the floor, then crushed it with his foot. He brought his knees close to his chest, resting his arms on his lap. He sat like this for a little while, listening to the rain.

"Fuckin' Spy," he muttered, "Makin' me think of that piece of shit Dad I've got. None o' this has to do with him. It's not _my_ fault Ma comes up with stupid assumptions . . . and it's not _my_ fault Spy had to talk stupid and bring him up, and now, of all fuckin' times. Too much bullshit on this team. Why is everyone on my case? Maybe if they weren't so annoying, I wouldn't be like this."

Scout sighed deeply, resting his pounding head on his hand. He felt angry with the world; angry at the Sniper for aggravating him, at the Medic for scaring him, and at the Spy for reminding him of his dad, He was especially angry at his mother, who he had gotten off the phone earlier in the day. It was the first conversation they had since he left home and it certainly wasn't a pleasant conversation.

"Sweetie," she had pleaded, her voice cracked from what sounded like crying, "Please, come home. I miss you so much and I'm sorry. I'm sorry I upset you. I'm sorry we haven't spoken in so long. I . . . I'm just so sorry. Please, come back."

"Look, Ma, I ain't comin' home," Scout had shouted, "I signed a friggin' contract. I'm here till I die. And even if I _could_ go home, I wouldn't, ya hear! I wouldn't!"

They had argued for some time before Scout heard another voice approach and shout into the phone, a voice he recognized as one of his brothers. "Listen here, punk," his brother yelled, their mother crying in the background, "Are ya happy? Are ya happy ya made Ma cry? Ya broke her fuckin' heart, and for what? For money? Is this Mann fella's dirty money really worth it? You better come back here, you little shit or I'll head over there myself and pound ya to a pulp. I'll break your friggin' legs and drag ya back if I have to."

Scout felt a pain in his heart, a very sharp pain, hearing evidence of the pain he had caused his family.

"I ain't scared of you," Scout spoke angrily, "You ain't the boss of me anymore, pal. None of you are. I'm makin' my pay by killin' people. It's my job and I ain't comin' back."

"Oh, you'll come back alright," Scout heard his brother shout, "In a fuckin' casket! Ya can't take yer money to the grave, ya brat." With that, his brother hung up on him, slamming the phone back down.

The cigarette hadn't calmed Scout's nerves in the slightest and his headache didn't feel any better. He could still hear his mother crying and his brother's final words. He held his knees tightly against himself. Scout felt dreadful after the phone call. After leaving his mother behind on a bad note, he felt as though she hated him. Now, he realized she didn't hate him, but was depressed by his absence. It was his fault she was crying and it was his fault his brothers were upset.

He thought he was ready for war. He had seen his share of movies and even read some comics depicting war. He thought it was just guns and glory; you'd kill your enemies and rejoice in victory. It was nothing like the movies or books. Scout remembered his first kill, how the BLU enemy beneath him couldn't stop bleeding after he had shot him. He couldn't forget the life fading from his enemy's eyes and how he finally stopped groaning in pain, laying completely still. Scout was horrified, having never witnessed death or had the experience of taking another human being's life. It took him a long while to finally become numbed to killing people, but after seeing the Medic in his office in the state he was, he was reminded that watching people die never got easier.

Scout trusted nobody. He, like the Spy, never told anyone anything about himself; Scout had only told them that he wished to be a baseball star. He kept his thoughts and feelings to himself and they wore away at him. Now, with the fresh thought in mind that he would only return home in a casket, that he was stuck on the base fighting a century-long war, he was frightened. He had just graduated high school and went to war right after. He wouldn't go to college, get married, and have a family of his own. He wouldn't become the star athlete he dreamed to be. He was going to die at a young age and cause his family even more pain. Sure, he was being paid thousands of dollars to fight in this war, but his brother was right. He couldn't take the money with him to the grave. In the end, his money meant nothing.

Very soon, the Scout felt a tear bud in the corner of his eye. "J-Jesus Christ," he sobbed, before allowing the tears to roll down his cheeks. He put a hand to his head and grabbed a fistful of hair as he cried long overdue tears.

Too much had been placed on his shoulders at that moment, far too much for him to handle. Thinking about his father, his weeping mother, his brothers, the Medic, and his inevitable death looming near, he finally let his emotions flow out. Tears fell onto his lap as another flash of lightning filled the room. He believed he was ready to face death when he signed Redmond Mann's contract. He thought he was ready to die when he considered suicide on multiple occasions. Right then, however, at that moment, Scout feared death; he had suddenly become frightened of facing the battle that would take place the next day.

For the first time in years, Scout felt entirely empty. The war, his family, his teammates, everything seemed so hopeless at that point.

"Fuck, I . . . I don't wanna die," he whimpered, more tears falling onto his lap. "God damn it . . . what the fuck did I get myself into?"

The Scout knew, after sealing his tears away for so long, he was going to cry the night away. That didn't matter to him. He didn't care if he cried himself sick.

The heavy rain fall never slowed down. Rainfall and thunder filled his room, while the worrisome voice of the Sniper echoed from down the hall.

"Don't you die on me," he heard the Sniper shout at the Medic, "Hang in there, mate! Don't you die on me."

Scout buried his face in his bandaged hands, weeping as hard as the blackened sky with every emotion he had tried so hard to hide.

"I regret everything . . . I regret everything I've ever done."


End file.
